Oxford Blues
by astral symphony
Summary: Harry cries, Lily thinks about her life, and sometimes a girl just gets the Oxford blues. (Drabble.)


**author's notes| **just a short drabble, something different. read & review, please! xx ashley

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At quarter to three in the morning on an unusually chilly September morning, Lily Potter stands in the small kitchen. Her knuckles glow white as she clutches the edge of the counter in an attempt to stop the world from spinning all around her. As of late it seems that just when she allows herself to think that maybe, _just maybe, _things are getting better, the turmoil expands and spreads its darkness. This week, she realizes as the dates flicker dull, throbbing memories across her mind, proved to be particularly draining.

Monday is host to several riots across Great Britain, in which Edgar Bones and his family fall victim. Tuesday's Prophet informs Lily that several Muggle families were murdered due to suspected involvement with Pureblood families – _whatever that means_, she thinks bitterly. On Wednesday, Caradoc Dearborn is declared missing. Sirius Black comes by on Thursday evening to bear news that Dorcas Meadowes was murdered by Voldemort himself. By Friday, Lily is just plain exhausted and, evidently, unable to sleep.

Harry must be able to sense the restlessness surrounding his young life; he promptly starts wailing, the sound loud and present even coming all the way from his room. After a short wave of panic, she grabs her wand (never more than an arm's reach away) from the counter and rushes upstairs.

Some nights the boy seems inconsolable, and this is one of those occasions. She lightly bounces Harry in her arms, shushing him gently and cooing sing-song rhymes into his ear. Nothing seems to work; in fact, the crying grows louder and more shrill.

"Harry," she pleads in a whisper, "baby, _shh-hhh_-_hhh_." He doesn't listen, of course, and continues to sob. She can't prevent the weary sigh that rushes from her lips and feels guilty for it. Being a mother, she knows, is not an easy task in the best of times, let alone the worst. In a rush of apology, she presses her lips to the top of his head, soft with dark curls and mutters a soft _I love you, I love you, I love you. _It becomes something of a chant she repeats in her mind as she ushers herself and child down the stairs and back into the kitchen. She hopes he's just hungry and perhaps a bottle of warm milk will ease his temper.

"Lily?" a voice calls from down the hall. She pauses her decent and turns her head only to see James standing in the doorway of their bedroom, squinting at her without his glasses on his face. "Everything okay?" His voice is groggy and rasped with sleep.

"Everything's fine. I think he's hungry. Go back to sleep, James. I was already awake, anyway. Besides, you got him last night."

"Are you certain?" he asks, scratching an itch on the side of his head and mussing up his dark hair, the hair that she is sure Harry will sport once he grows.

"Absolutely, love. Go sleep, I'm all right."

He listens and tells her he loves her before heading back into bed. She likes that about him, that he'll listen when she assures him she's all right on her own. Some men would hover – and perhaps he might have, a year ago when Harry was just barely born. But now? James recognizes that sometimes all a child needs is some one-on-one, and anything more is overwhelming. He trusts her judgment as much as she trusts his, and it makes her smile to think of that.

As she feeds Harry a bottle, she tries to imagine her life had she not received that fateful letter ten years ago – the letter that changed the course of her life irreversibly. "Dear Miss Evans," it read. "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." With a pang, dulled with time, she recalls the thrill upon showing Severus the letter; the wide smile on his usually sad face; the butterflies that danced inside her stomach in a frustrating mix of excitement and nerves.

She contemplates the sort of marks she would have received on her A-Levels. Would she have been as clever at Chemistry as she was in Potions? Perhaps her affinity for Charms would have translated into proficiency in History or Art. Perhaps she would have graduated with honors and perhaps she would have received a very gracious scholarship. Perhaps instead of holding a child right now, she would be sporting the coveted Oxford blues, carrying a sad Russian novel under her arm.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

She is fairly certain, no matter how many perhaps run through her mind, that she would not be married with a child at twenty-one. She would not be wielding a weapon at all hours of the day. She would not be forced into hiding. Her friends would not be dying all around her, falling at the drop of a hat. Her parents would not be dead, her sister would not blame her and hate her and shun her.

The bottle drops from Lily's hand, partly her fault and partly because Harry had fallen fast asleep, his mouth open and no longer taking in the milk. The plastic bottle echoes against the linoleum floor, causing her baby to stir slightly in her arms. He does not wake, though, for which she is grateful.

She would not have brought this child into the world had she not received that letter.

She smiles down at Harry – at his pink cheeks and round nose; the dark curls framing his face; long lashes attached to closed lids, hiding those wide, bright eyes of his – deep green, like her own. He is round, like most babies tend to be, and warm with life.

Some days she feels irresponsible for having a child, however mistaken, in this war-struck world. Lily Potter knows, though, that she would not trade it for any number of perhaps. Not even a full-scholarship to Oxford, she thinks, knowing it to be the truth.


End file.
